I'm gonna go ahead and post this, even though I can't help thinking it's 
not really ready.  It's a departure from my usual style, but in the 
opposite direction from my last, um, experiment.  I like this one, it 
clicks for me in a lot of ways, so tear it to shreds, 'cause there are 
more rewrites left in this puppy.  
  And if anyone can come up with a better title, I'd be thankful.  :)

==========

Questions
    by G. Fleming

What is the purpose of poetry? 
What remedy lies in a  rhyme?
What is the meaning of anything real,
When nothing can shorten time?

What is the point of perfection?
What is a carrot or stick?
Where is the virtue in sitting through hours
Of corporate rhetoric?

Where is the lover I long for?
When will by heart be unbound?
What good is the cup that brims over with love,
When it only will spill on the ground?

Whose eyes will flash in the darkness?
Whose heartbeat will quicken my soul?
Whose laughter will lighten the mornings and nights,
If the bed by my side remains cold?

Oh, when will the moment arrive,
When my silence will burst into song?
Oh, how can I bear the meaningless time,
When each minute's a century long?

Was I born into bondage forever?
Is my sentence written in stone?
Is there ever an end to the ocean of grey
That surrounds this island of bones?

Where is the goodness in giving,
When nobody needs what you have?
What is the meaning of having at all,
When no one will take your love?

What is the purpose of poetry,
If no one is moved by your plight?
What is the meaning of anything real,
If my love stays a dream in my mind?

17 responses total.

I dont' know a hell of a lot about poems, I just write them. But I like the
flow of this one, I guess the rhyming part of it helps. I feel the "looking
for love", and "meaning of life" themes are emminent throughout this piece.
As far as a title goes, I think you should find something that combines these
two themes.

I think you missed the point.  The content is questioning pretty 
typical themes of poetry.  As I said, I'm a little creatively spent, so 
I can't see things to change at the moment.  It seems brilliant, 
really, but I will agree with Ronaldo-- the title *really* needs 
changing.  Too generic and nondescript.

IF I wwere more talented I would offer to write music for this.

There have been a number of pieces here that I've wanted to write music 
for, Erinn.

Isn't it frustrating?

btw, Joe, did you get any of your poetry set to music?  I'm still 
waiting to hear what you came up with.

no, tisn't frustrating for me.
it's just the way it is.  <shrug>
point of my comment being that I liked the verse pattern this one has; it
rings like music.

The problem with this one, for me, is that yeah it's questioning the usual
themes of poetry, but it's also doing so _in a realy typical cheesy-poetry
meter,_ so my first reaction when I saw the beginning was "oh, bad rhymed
poetry."  Which isn't really accurate, since there's some cool stuff in
here...it's just the combination of the form and the themes sort of undermine
this from the start, IMO.  

I agree, though, that it would go well to music.

Hey, you gotta at least read a couple of stanzas before you call it 
*bad* rhymed poetry.  :)  

I kinda see your point, though.  In this jaded day and age, rhymed 
poetry has to have something special or it seems corny and trite.  And 
I'll admit that the first stanza or two of this are not the best parts. 
Hmm.  I've got some ideas.

All right, try this on for size.  Lots of changes, including a crack at 
a slightly better title.  

Rhetorical Ballad    (ex.  Questions)
rev. 12.20.99
     by G. Fleming    

What shall I do, this evening?
Shall I wander alone in the gloom?
Shall I curl on the couch in the firelight reading
A book of another man's poems?

But what is the purpose of poetry? 
What remedy lies in a  rhyme?
What is the meaning of anything real,
When nothing can shorten time?

What solace is there before sunrise?
Who kindles a fire with no spark?
What is the use of my passionate soul,
If my eyes cannot see in the dark?

Where is the lover I long for?
When will my trumpet resound? 
What good is the vessel that brimmeth with love
When it only will spill on the ground?

Whose eyes will flash in the darkness?
Whose heartbeat will quicken my soul?
Whose laughter will lighten the mornings and nights,
If the bed by my side remains cold?

Oh, when will the moment arrive,
When my silence will burst into song?
How can I tolerate marking this time,
When each minute's a century long?

Was I born into bondage forever?
Is my sentence written in stone?
Is there never an end to the ocean of grey
That surrounds this island of bones?

Where is the goodness in giving,
When nobody needs what you have?
What is the meaning of having at all,
When no one will take your love?

A fire will warm me this evening. 
A book may sharpen my mind.  
The music of Mozart will laugh in my ears,
But my heard must bide its time.

BTW, I discovered another reason this particular meter sounds corny:  
limericks.  <flem buries his face in his hands>  Unfortunately, it's far 
too late in the poem's life now to change the meter...

I like the ideas.  I don't even mind the meter so much.
I guess if I were you, I would have writen it differently, and that's about
as close as I can come to n epxlaination of how it makes me feel; though to
be honest, it sounds truthful this way, it sounds like your voice.  If I wrote
it, I would use language that moved differently.  The meter makes the ideas
a little stilted, jostling.  
Have you ever had a friend that gave too much of themself away?  THis is what
this poem is like.

The new first stanza helps a lot -- for me, it points out that this is
_supposed_ to be playing with poetic cliches and conventions.  

This one is interesting.

For what it's worth, I hope you find her.

Thanks, but...  it's only tangentially about me.  

Kierkegaard thought that authors did not have the right to write about 
themselves.  That it is an abuse of art to write about actual events or 
feelings from the author's life, even if they are thinly disguised.  
Instead, an author basically ought to write about ideals, the ultimate 
refinement of his or her own experiences, and, equally, the ultimate 
refinement of the opposite of his or her experience.  The universality 
is the important thing, not the actual event.  (I'm not explaining this 
well, but I hope you get the idea...)

I do occasionally have moments where I feel the emotional mix I was 
trying to express here; I suspect that everyone does, at one time or 
another.  But it's not common for me, and it's not nearly as strong as 
I've tried to portray it.  

that's almost Socratic/Platonic in its thinking.

Pretty much.  :)  I suppose I shouldn't presume to put words in 
Kierkegaard's mouth based only on a rather vague recollection of stuff I 
read, but I suspect he would have respected Plato.  

Whatever.

I still hope you find her.  Or Whomever she is perfect for finds her.

I've been trying to come up with a coherent response to #13 for a week or so
now, but it's just not gonna happen.  On the one hand, I tend to write about
ideals (but inspired by reality) rather than about reality, so I can see where
he's coming from.  On the other hand, I think calling it an "abuse of art"
is putting it a little strongly.  Oh well.....

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